


and you say 'i'll give you anything'

by smallredboy



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, First Kiss, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Overworking, Pining, mentions of death penalty + homophobia, mentions of lams + hamburr, some religious symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 12:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14308323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Alexander falling asleep at his desk kickstarts George admitting his love for him.





	and you say 'i'll give you anything'

**Author's Note:**

> a whamilton fic dedicated to the wham squad. i love you two so much. this was inspired by one of their ideas. 
> 
> faceclaim for alex is michael luwoye, and for george it's marcus choi. 
> 
> enjoy!

George is focused on going through his letters when he feels something thump against the desk. He turns around and sees Alexander's head against the letter he was writing, his eyes lidded and his mouth agape. There's ink on his cheek, and George's heart almost leaps out of his chest.

He lets out the breath he was holding and tries to go back to his letters. It's cold, not chillingly so, just uncomfortable enough for him to shiver a little. He taps his foot against the ground and wonders just what to do. He reads through the letter one of the Congressmen sent and leaves it on Alexander's desk.

He doesn't know what to do with Alexander. Ever since he saw him, twenty and hungry and _brilliant_ , he hadn't known what to do with him. He gives him a hunger for something, for a love he doesn't really have with Martha. And he's a man— yes, he's a man, and he could care less. If Alexander was a woman it'd be easier, sure, but if Alexander was a woman he wouldn't be his aide de camp.

He's brilliant, and he holds himself with such confidence even though his past is a mess of tragedy and suffering. He acts as if his past never happened, as if he came to the world nineteen and in America. It makes him want him (maybe want to be him), just how sure of himself he is.

George gets up from his chair and pulls it away from the desk, still looking at Alexander. He's so much more peaceful now that he's asleep; he can still see the bags under his eyes, darker than the rest of his skin. His tight curls are kind of a mess, his beard against the desk. George gulps; a part of him wants to stop these thoughts. How he's fallen in love with his aide and he can't do anything about it.

Alexander is twenty years younger than him, and Alexander is a man, and Alexander is married ( _just like you_ , the part of his brain with common sense hisses). There's no way it could work out.

He takes off his coat and puts it on Alexander, around his shoulders. It's a little bigger than his frame, not by much, but he looks adorable in it. After a few minutes of staring and wondering just how much would it cost their relationship to just _kiss him_ , Alexander starts stirring awake.

His deep brown eyes blink once, twice, and he moves away from the desk slowly. "Did I fall asleep?" he asks in a murmur, and George's heart leaps out of his chest and into the ground.

"You did," George nods. "You've been working too much, Alexander."

"I need to work this much, sir," he argues, stretching before feeling the coat around his shoulders. His eyes widen and he looks away, embarrassed. "I can't be General George Washington's aide otherwise." It's said with a little too much adoration, in a way that makes him a little uneasy. Like Alexander sees him as his superior and nothing else.

Which is pobably the truth, but he doesn't want to accept it.

"Oh, you can," he says, a little too simply. "You don't have to work yourself dead just to keep your job."

"I want to please you," Alexander insists, and his eyes widen even bigger than before. He looks scared out of his mind for a second before falling back to his look of quiet security. Of complete confidence. "I want to please you, sir."

"You don't have to please me by overworking," he retorts. Alexander gets up from his chair, and he can't stop himself. He's known for his self-control, for his lack of a temper, but he can't control himself around Alexander. He puts a hand on his ink-stained cheek, runs his thumb over it.

Alexander gulps. "...Sir?" he asks, quiet, vulnerable. Nothing like his usual self, his usual fierce attitude, his usual hunger for something greater. He's a little meeker around George, almost _submissive_. George doesn't like it.

"You can please me by kissing me," he says, voice so quiet he doesn't know if Alexander can hear him. Judging by his dumbfounded look, he can. "If you want. If you feel..." he presses his thumb against his cheek, and Alexander puts his hand around George's wrist, pulls George's hand down. "If you feel what I feel for you, Alexander."

And he knows he doesn't. Knows he's going to tell the whole world that General Washington is a sodomite, knows he's going to get hanged— and for a second, it doesn't matter. He'll die for Alexander, and maybe that'll be enough.

But that doesn't happen. Instead, Alexander looks at him and with a honey-sweet voice he says, "Of course, sir." He pauses before saying, "Of course I feel the same. I thought I was crazy."

His first thought is that this is a dream.

"You..." George starts, but doesn't finish it.

Alexander nods. "Of course."

He cuts the distance between them, their fingers intertwined, and George almost chokes on the nonexistent air. He breathes Alexander's lips like they're holy, pushes him closer to him and puts an arm around his waist. Alexander groans against his mouth, and he opens it, and he _kisses_ him, with meaning, with love.

Alexander's body feels _sacred_ against his own, like he's eating the communion bread as he kisses him as if life depends on it. He lets out a shaky sigh when they finally pull away, Alexander's lips swollen just a tiny bit, tiny enough that if he didn't stare at his mouth so much he wouldn't have noticed.

"I..." The other two words get stuck in George's throat. Alexander runs a hand through his thinning hair, and the younger man's smile is a little blinding, a little contagious. Before he knows it he's smiling too, wide and almost hurting his cheeks. "I..."

"You can say it, you know?" Alexander says, and it's the Alexander he sees in public. His fierce look, his passionate smile, his hunger for something greater. It's not the meek Alexander when they're alone, the one that doesn't sound like himself when he speaks.

And George adores it.

"I love you." The words come out naturally, and at the same time they don't. George puts a hand on his shoulder, straightens up so he looks taller and more imposing before stopping. "I love you, Alexander."

Alexander draws a shaky breath and smiles at him. "I thought I'd never hear you say that," he admits, his voice kind of heartwarming with how loving it is.

George rubs his thumb against Alexander's cheek again, lets it go black with the ink. He can almost see the halo around Alexander's head. An angel, God-sent, honey-sweet and tempting; also passionate, angry and unforgiving.

"You're an angel," he tells him.

Alexander kisses him instead of answering.

"We should sleep," George says after a beat or two of silence. Alexander clasps his hand around his and he lets out a silent gasp, and looks at the younger man.

He cocks his head, a smirk set on his factions. "We should, sir."

"George," he corrects, "Please, Alexander, call me George when we're alone." He knows him calling him by his first name in public would raise questions he doesn't think he's strong enough to lie for.

Alexander hums before nodding. "Okay, George," he says, George a little too slow, as if he's tasting the name on his tongue.

The sleeping bags aren't the most comfortable, but they work well. They're separated, and George aches for the man's touch. After a few minutes of restless turning, he hears footsteps around the tent.

"Would I fit there?" Alexander asks.

George smiles so wide he could break his face in half. "I think so."

"Would they say anything if they saw us?" he shifts his weight on his feet, looks at George with curious dark eyes. He's so handsome he makes George's heart stop for just a second.

"You wake up earlier than anyone, Alexander," he reminds him gently, "no one will see us in the same sleeping bag."

He breathes. "Okay."

Alexander quickly gets inside the sleeping bag, burying his face against George's shoulder and putting his arm around his stomach.

George hums and looks back at him. His eyes gleam in the darkness of the tent, and God, George is so awestruck by their love. He expected the exact opposite of being in the same sleeping bag as Alexander; he expected harsh words and a scream of sodomy or two.

And it's fine, and it's great, and he's thankful.

"I've... loved men before, y'know," Alexander tells him after a few moments of silence. His mouth is against his shoulder, close to the crook of his neck. "Laurens and Burr and... and you."

George grins. He always felt like Alexander had _something_ with those men, but he thought it was him wanting Alexander to be like him. "I've loved other men too," he says.

"Really?"

His incredulity throws him off for a second, but he replies, "Yeah."

"And Martha?"

"And Eliza?" he retorts.

Alexander stays quiet. Then, he says, almost too quiet for George to hear, "Okay, then. Okay."

"I love you."

Alexander gulps, tries to mouth the words. But there's only silence for a while, and George wonders just what that brilliant mind of his is thinking.

And it's the same thing Alexander told him maybe an hour ago; "You can say it, you know, Alexander?"

"I know, s— George." He lets his head prop against his shoulder before kissing the back of his neck. "I love you too."

George's belly fills with warmth, and he can sleep soundly for the first time in a while.

 


End file.
